A Means to Brutality
by Medorikoi
Summary: Written for kink meme, Spoilers for story in parenthesis. Watson sells himself on the streets in his need to be dominated. He does not know it is Holmes who buys his company.


Title: A Means to Brutality  
Rating: M  
Warnings: drug use, domination, kink sex  
Summary: Written for kink meme, Spoilers for story in parethesis, summary below. (Watson sells himself on the streets in his need to be dominated. He does not know it is Holmes who buys his company.)

His past haunts him like a monster in the night, lingering forever out of sight. Holmes is wasting away before his very eyes, a victim of his own fatal habits, and Watson? The only thing left to do is forget.

* * *

When John Watson had left 221 B Baker Street at nightfall he had done so without being questioned and without a mind to answer if he had been. He had left Holmes on the settee in the darkest of moods, all day he had lain about as if deep in a coma, moving his long sinewy limbs only in search of another of his horrid injections of cocaine.

Long years had passed with Watson biting his tongue, with him pleading and demanding that Holmes should stop. Long years passed with John Watson watching his only real friend destroy himself as if he were worth nothing.

It destroyed him inside. Each injection into Holmes veins brought fresh panic to his own flighty nerves; it made his heart thud painfully in his chest as if it could at any moment cease to beat. To think that the most brilliant mind he had ever had the fortune to know and the best friend he would ever posses would kill himself so deliberately, would kill himself without a care of what pain his actions caused others.

Watson pushed himself into the mist of the night, remnants of an earlier rain made the stonework shine like silver beneath his boots. He was glad for the damp night air, it did not look strange as he pulled his old coat high around his neck, no one would glance twice at the low tilt of his hat.

His injured leg did not throb as it would later in the night, for now it stepped wide and fast, a brisk walk away from the flat he called home. Need burned within him, a need that set his teeth on edge, a need that drove him mindlessly into the night the way Holmes craved the needle. It twisted in his gut, stealing his reason, driving him insane.

He could not watch Holmes kill himself and carry on as if he were ok.

He had watched too many men die as he stood with bandages in hand.

He should have helped more, should have been a better doctor, he should have been able to save them.

He watched every day as his best friend destroyed himself bit by bit and every injection he could not help but think.

I could have stopped this.

I could have saved him.

He didn't want to wonder. He wanted that ability to be taken away from him.

He didn't want it to be his fault anymore.

The night closed around him and the darkness enveloped him, letting him forget the Doctor with scarred flesh, the man who suffered and failed every day of his life.

With every fresh syringe he died a little more and the need within him grew, the dark side of himself, the criminal within.

It was not desire, not want nor longing, nothing so simple as that. He was an animal, mindless, he needed it as he needed air, as vital as water to his decrepit soul.

He was a hypocrite of course. He berated Holmes for his dangerous ways, how he risked himself body and mind, and yet here he was, pushing determinedly for the worst part of London with a plan for far worse.

He could be murdered on no more than a whim, cut and left to die without the twinge of a conscience.

He could be hurt and broken and punished.

In fact, he planned on it.

To give up, to not have a choice. To have a single moment where if the world fell apart there would be nothing he could do.

A moment he could forget Holmes.

The way his pale flesh looked with the flush of excitement from the chase, the way his grey eyes dominated and pierced through him as if he could look into every corner of him and claim it all for himself.

The way each day seemed to take them further away from each other and cocaine poisoned the fleeting moments they possessed.

The path beneath his feet was well worn, walked with instinct and memory rather than conscious thought. This freed him to observe only the persons who might spy him in his lurid transformation; the thought should have calmed him but served only to set his nerves on fire. Each drunken face seemed keen and knowing in the lamplight. He found the same darkened alleyway he had used dozens of times before. He traded his daily clothing for their ragged, abused counterparts, his hat for a threadbare cap, and deep from within his pockets he pulled makeup to ruddy his skin and mar his features.

A doctor with a bloody past entered the alley and the person that emerged was no more than a nameless unfortunate, a rent boy without a companion to hinder him, without a past to live up to.

Men and women alike walked the dirty streets of Whitechapel, trolling for their next partner, their next job. Some wore makeup, their hair done, their bodies on display in ways that would make a gentleman blush. Others wore the only clothing they had, their daily rags, but so obviously they stood upon street corners in such a manner that it would be impossible to think them anything but what they were.

The patrons of these streets were varied as any in London. Some were young and beautiful but already the marks of a hard life lay heavy on their cheeks, others possessed withered or broken faces none would call beautiful but none here would turn away. Many suffered sores of malnutrition or disease, the flaking makeup giving them a look of old death. Some unfortunates had bruises upon their emaciated flesh, some had split lips never allowed to heal for use, some limped painfully as blood spotted their clothing. There was more to fear on the streets than disease and death.

Here injury is a part of the air you breathe, wet and heavy with spilled blood. It comes in the form of customer you can't handle, a brute who has had just one drink too many, a hand that falls too heavy, an ear that cannot hear a 'No' cried out in the darkness.

More than once he had left these streets in blood and pain. That was the worst part of it all. To go home so openly broken to a man who sees everything and yet not a word was ever spoken of it. In the hours Watson limped home, tasting blood in his mouth and a burn that spoke of more than rough use Holmes was too lost in his own need to see him at all.

So much cocaine poisoned his veins that nothing in the world mattered and for Watson, the monster so recently sated with his own blood began to groan once more.

He should have saved him.

Watson wished he could say he picked his costumers carefully. That he chose the ones that looked nervous, as if they had never done this, those least likely to carry diseases that would follow him back to his life as the Doctor. He wished he could say he chose men he could overpower in a fight.

But the animal within him roared, it needed and demanded.

He wanted to be held down, to be overpowered.

To be beaten.

To be made to surrender.

Sometimes he chose the scarred brute with cruel eyes just to feel alive, to feel uncaring hands and cruel pounding as if he were worth nothing. Other nights he wanted them tall and hansom with pale skin and dark hair, he wanted to see them through half closed eyes and imagine that Holmes had found his secret, that they could save each other brutally. But it never satisfied. It was like dreaming of Paris and never getting closer than a postcard.

A timid looking mouse of a man crossed the street with wide beady eyes. His dress suggested he had saved his money to buy wares tonight, upon his small callused hand was a wedding band but his clothes needed patching and the dark bags beneath his eyes were something Watson had seen too many times to not recognize. A widower, recent, maybe the wife still lay dead in her sickbed. Harmless. The kind of pathetic soul that could never hurt him, could never give him what he needed.

The man came up to him with a smile almost too innocent for these streets.

Watson didn't want to feel for him. This was not a mystery or an adventure; this was not the family of a patient he failed to save.

He needed too much to spare him even a shred of his failing humanity.

"Move on old man." His voice was gruff with need and rampant desperation.

The monster hiding in the back of his mind reared its ugly head, anxiety tangled in his gut, too much he should do. Even now, even here, he could not help but think. I can save him too. Tell him to go home, to turn back before he falls.

With a halting step the man moved on to a boy- a child no older than Wiggins and the two moved off together. Watson trained his eyes to the ground as they passed him. Another person he failed to save, they compounded. He was going to scream.

"Too good for his money?" A harsh voice growled from too close. A monster of a man stood before him, tall and grizzled, thick coarse hair covering his face and his breath heavy with cheep whiskey. Every fiber of his been screamed at him that this man was dangerous, that the pitiless glint in his eye spoke of rage and cruelty. "Think you're too good for mine?"

He should walk away. He should go home. He should forget he ever came back here.

But the brute was warm against him in the chilled London air, huge and demanding and real, taking away his choice and he needed…

"No."He shook his head; he could already feel the blood rush through his veins, alive. "Not too good."  
Two hands seized his arms like painful vice grips; they pushed him into the darkness and insecurity of an empty alleyway where more than trash and rain water littered the ground. His heart thrilled as his face and arms were pushed harshly into the brick wall, black with grime, and hips gowned into his backside.

"You want this don't you?" The gravel voice panted in his ear as their bodies were forced against one another violently. He tried not to press back into his captor as big hands traced heavily down his sides, sliding blindly to the front of his trousers. "You want it hard."

A big hand grabbed his erection painfully through his trousers, gripping it too hard, too rough. Watson panted heavily against the brick, breathing in the scent of old sex and garbage, his face scratching painfully as fear coursed through his chest. Powerless.

The hands torturing him abandoned their scathing grip, ripping down his trousers, breaking the laces as if they were made of string, exposing pale white flesh to the naked air.

He closed his eyes and pictured Holmes lost in a drug induced daze lying as if dead, he pictured the men he failed to save on the battlefield watching him with unseeing eyes.

"Yes." His own voice was horse with desire and pain. "Break me."

He could feel the bulge of the brute's arousal against his naked body, pressing against his flesh. A hand snaked quickly over his chest, taking a nipple between two fingers and rolling it painfully. A breathy moan was torn from his lips, only serving to make the man behind him rut harder against him. The hand lowered, brushing over his naked erection.

"You let strangers touch you? Hurt you? Dominate you?" The voice behind him was angry, infuriated. The smell of whiskey was overpowering. He tried to turn around to look at him again but a hand pressed his face into the brick. "Move-" The voice brimming with unbridled rage whispered in his ear as teeth sunk painfully into his shoulder. "and I will leave you like this."

Hands pried apart his ass and two long fingers penetrated him with a single harsh thrust. Watson cried out, his voice drowning in the screams and laughter of the dark poisoned night. The fingers thrust painfully inside of him, unrelenting, never slowing to let him adjust to the penetration. He was panting, on the verge of screams or tears when the man thrust a third finger inside of him and left his fingers buried deep inside of him, invading him.

"Will you scream for me? Will you beg for more?" It was a voice he had heard before, the same sharp hysteria. It was the voice of a murderer knowing he would be caught before the final act, the voice of a madman, of the betrayed and scorned lover. The fingers were wrenched out of his body, leaving him wretched and empty, tearing a cry from his throat at the brutality. "What do you need from me? A random cock? A random fuck?"

The sliding of cloth filled the air and he could feel it. Hard desire pressed against him, straining to be in him and pressed up against his most intimate of places.

"You want me to ride you until you break?" His voice was getting louder, more pained as he went on. Long fingers dug into his hips leaving harsh red marks that would turn purple within the hour as the man's erection pressed closer, threatening. "Tell me what it is you need!"

He could feel the heat of their bare flesh pressed together, feel the desire building like a wave within him, ready to break, to crest, to drown out everything he was.

"To forget. Make me forget."

The hands on his hips released him, soothing for a moment the bruised skin before skimming lower, brushing the fabric off his legs. Hands ran over the scars on his thigh, fleetingly he hoped the night was dark enough to hide his malformations but the hands kept going, stripping him of his clothing until his trousers hung undignified on a single leg.

When the man stood straight again and his warmth touched him in the darkness, long arms wrapped around him, caressing his chest, holding him in place against him with sudden care. Hands caressed and held where once they had tormented but he felt just as trapped in these arms, just as pinned down and owned.

"Close your eyes." The gruff voice whispered, not a request but a demand. He did what he was told, he let hands turn him, felt the arms wrap around him again, felt the fleeting sweet friction as their erections brushed. He wanted to rut against him, to be held down and have the brute find his release in him but hands were pulling, maneuvering. His legs were forced painfully around the man's waist, and he was held aloft in strong arms, his back leaning against the brick wall behind them, his entrance exposed to the tip of the mans cock pressing against him.

"Tell me my dear Watson." A voice more beloved than his own whispered in his ear, his eyes flew open and the brut was gone, in his place the only man he had ever loved. "Why would you ever want to forget me?"

Holmes leaned forward and their lips met in a kiss as his hips drove up, penetrating Watson to the hilt, thrusting him down until he was buried completely within him.

This time Watson did scream.

Screams and moans were suffocated in Holmes lips as they tried to swallow each other. His hips pistoning deep into Watson, holding him in place, using him, dominating him. Each thrust of his cock drove him deeper into Watson, each stroke making him whimper helplessly in his embrace, made him writhe against him.

"Is this what you dreamed of while you let other men fuck you?" His voice was deeper than Watson had ever heard it, throaty with desire and anger. He ground himself into Watson, letting the head of his cock strike again and again off his prostate, tearing desperate moans from his swollen lips. "Did you think of me when they hurt you?"

Holmes lifted Watsons body off himself, until only the head of his member remained buried within him, teasing, not enough. He squirmed and struggled trying to force himself down again but firm ruthless hands kept him pinned in place.

"You will not come back here. You will not let them hurt you anymore." Grey eyes burned with fury and possessiveness as they stared into desperate blue. "I cannot live thinking of them touching you."

"Holmes." Watson pleaded. His hand slipped beneath himself, grasping Holmes and palming his erection, desperate to get him to act, to force Holmes into him again. He was so close to being complete, to the wave of nothingness crashing over him.

"Promise me you will tell me what you need. That you will let me take care of you."

"I promise, Holmes, please." But he was already being thrust down, his back scratched against the stone wall but he didn't care. Holmes was holding him in place, pinning him to the wall and thrusting into him, dominating him, taking him, loving him.

A long elegant hand wrapped around his erection. He tried to cry out, to tell him it was too much but grey eyes were watching him and thin lips found his own again for only the third of fourth time in their lives and it was too much.

It was perfect.

He cried out into the wasted London night like a whore, like nothing in the world mattered. Like the world was crashing down around him. He could feel himself tighten around Holmes as if trying to hold him in his body as his essence coated both of their stomachs and an errant drop splashed against his friends cheek. He watched the almost shock pass across Holmes features, the bliss as his dearest friend shot his seed deep within his body, claiming him with his body.

Together they sunk to the dirtied ground, limbs entwined and faces pressed close as the air cooled their sweating bodies.

Watson felt the need within him calm and sleep, sated at last as he reverently brought a hand to trace across his friends face, to touch his lips.

Holmes smiled his small twisted smile as he leaned forward to press their lips together and keenly felt his withering erection twinge with pleasure, still buried within Watsons body. Their kiss became possessive and controlling.

"I thought you-" Watson stuttered over his words as their kiss ended and a flush rose to his cheeks. "How did you know?"

Holmes gave a teasing thrust if his hips just to watch Watsons face as he moved within him, to memorize the sound of his gasping breath. "You just told me your reasoning, or at least enough of it for me to know what haunts you after knowing you so long. As to how I knew what you got up to at night?" He pressed another possessive kiss to his friends lips, for no reason but that he could.

"Elementary my dear Watson…"


End file.
